


Drive Me Wild

by Enfilade



Series: Mend What is Broken [6]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alt Modes, Consensual, Kinky, Light Bondage, M/M, Robots, Sex with a Car, Tentacles, alt mode sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Drift tries to figure out why Ratchet’s suddenly acting shy, he discovers the medic’s got a kink that Drift’s never even dreamed existed.  Contains alt mode sex.  In six parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fast Machine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [extension_cord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/gifts).



> Warning: probably the most explicit thing I’ve ever written, contains sex with no human equivalent, alt-mode sex, robot appendages that aren’t really tentacles but that’s the closest tag I can find, light consensual bondage, both sticky and plug-and-play sex, and really socially deviant sex in the context of a loving consensual relationship. 
> 
> TL;DR – You’ll either think this fic is absolutely bizarre, or you’ll use up all the cold water in your building/well/city reservoir/etc.
> 
> In six chapters.
> 
> ...I really hope this isn't the feeling of impending infamy...
> 
> Happy Birthday to extension_cord, who was bemoaning the lack of alt-mode sex in fanfiction. 
> 
> Queue up AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” and enjoy.

It was early in the evening for Drift to be heading to Ratchet’s hab suite. According to his chronometer, Ratchet’s shift had ended ten minutes ago. According to experience, though, Ratchet usually took an hour, maybe more, to extricate himself from the medbay, and Drift had learned to give Ratchet that time if he didn’t want to loiter in the corridor waiting. There were only so many times he could tell Ultra Magnus that he was inspecting the facilities before Magnus would start to question why all Drift’s inspection reports were focused on one particular hallway.

Drift had planned to kill some time in Swerve’s. Given the activities going on in the bar tonight, Drift had reconsidered before he’d even finished his first light energon spritzer. Now he was on his way to Ratchet’s, wondering if he’d be lucky, but accepting he might end up doing some meditation in the corridor.

His lips curved in a smile as he saw Ratchet step off the elevator with a stack of datapads in his arms.

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “You’re early.” His smile betrayed him. Drift felt a warm sensation settle over his spark. Ratchet was happy to see him.

“You busy?”

“I hope so,” Ratchet said with a wink as he palmed open the access panel to his hab suite. “Come on in.”

Drift followed eagerly, and Ratchet locked the door behind them.

Ratchet’s room was still a bit of a mess, but it had a couch now, and a larger recharge slab, and a big pile of fluffy blankets and pillows. The aetheric energy flow in the place was still a little stagnant, and Drift was grateful that, unlike Ultra Magnus, he at least could ignore the clutter in favour of paying attention to the suite’s owner.

Drift curled up on the couch with one of the blankets while Ratchet put his datapads down on his desk.“How was Swerve’s?” Ratchet asked conversationally.

Drift rolled his optics. “Place turned into a game of Truth or Drink again.”

Funny how Drift had used to get a secret thrill out of trying to shock the Autobots with his explicit escapades. Done properly, the thrill was good enough to override the sinking feeling in his tanks when he thought about his past: a long, sordid list of experiences created by desperation, obligation, or a mixture of the two. These days, though, Drift couldn’t shake the feeling that it was none of anyone else’s business what he’d done since putting his old lives behind him. Or perhaps it was just that he’d learned on the street that anything a mech truly valued had to be kept secret, so it would be protected.

“Really.” Ratchet watched him with an expression that Drift couldn’t quite interpret; it might have been either jealousy or concern. “What was tonight’s question?”

Drift laughed. “Have you ever ‘faced someone in alt mode. Gross, huh?”

Ratchet didn’t react; he just kept on sorting datapads. “Well?”

“What?”

“Have you?”

Drift spluttered. “Primus, Ratchet. No.” He hugged the blanket closer around himself.

“Really.”

Drift supposed Ratchet’s skepticism was fair. The medic had operated a free drop-in clinic in Rodion; he knew what the Dead End was like. “Okay, look. Honest answer? No. Yeah, that’s not the kind of fetish a mech can easily ask his partner about, so yeah, there were a few sickos who came down to the Dead End ‘cause they liked sticking their cables into a vehicle’s exhaust pipe…or under the hood, Primus only knows where. We all knew who they were, too—word got around on the street—so if you didn’t want to sell what they were buying, you could steer clear. Oh, and there was one guy who got off on _being_ fragged when _he_ was in alt mode. It was the only thing that really did it for him, poor glitch. Nice guy, too, if you overlooked the pervert part.”

“And you didn’t frag any of them.”

“No. Don’t you believe m…” Drift paused, hung his head. “I really didn’t, but maybe it was just because every time I got desperate enough to say yes, those guys weren’t around, and when they were, I had full fuel tanks or a better offer. So no. No, I really haven’t been fragged by anyone when I was in alt mode.”

He caught Ratchet’s optics, and thought he saw a question there.

“And no, I haven’t fragged someone else when he was in alt mode, either. I told you, he was a nice guy. He asked, I said no, it was cool. Let me keep the cred…anyway. Yeah, this is kind of a disgusting topic, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Disgusting.” Ratchet continued to putter around with the things on his desk. Drift wondered if anything fazed the Chief Medical Officer. Ratchet had probably seen some pretty weird sexual practices in his lifetime, particularly the ones that left physical evidence behind.

“Do you know why we find it disgusting?” Ratchet asked abruptly.

Drift blinked. What was this? “I, er…I guess I never really thought about it. One mech in robot mode and one mech in alt mode, doing it, is…well, it’s just gross, isn’t it?”

“We’re programmed to think it’s gross. Phar…the medical establishment thinks it’s to do with our concentration when we’re flying, driving, whatever. It’s harder for us to perform our functions properly and control our vehicle forms if our mental processes are caught up in the act of interface. Personally, I think there’s a large helping of Functionism caught up in that explanation, and my theory’s got more to do with the difficulty of creating a satisfactory union of parts. Unless you can do that, the only mechs who are getting off are your aforementioned perverts – the ones who get a thrill out of doing something forbidden, even repellant.”

Drift shook his head. “You can’t get a proper interface link established between jack and port. It’s just…it’s just not natural.”

Ratchet snorted. “Not “ _natural_ ,”he said, making air quotes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What?”

“You think having someone’s cable in your mouth is natural?” Ratchet’s gaze dropped to Drift’s hip armour and the white speedster felt his fans activate, in embarrassment rather than arousal. Ratchet’s mouth had been very, very busy in that vicinity not that long ago…

“You can’t transfer data that way,” Ratchet continued relentlessly, “so what’s the point of it?”

“It…it feels good?”

“Right. It feels good, and between two consenting mechanisms, it’s not hurting anyone, and is actually a very pleasant experience to share. So…why not. Right?”

“Um.”

“Of course if someone found the idea completely off-putting, that would be a different story.” Ratchet was suddenly fascinated by his datapads again.

“I just don’t get the appeal of having a cable stuffed into my air vents or whatever.” Drift leaned back on the couch. “So all in all, you’re probably happy you were stuck in the med bay working tonight.”

“Yes, just as well,” Ratchet said distractedly.

“Hey. Are you going to sort those all night, or are you going to come over here?”

“Huh?” Ratchet looked up. “Oh. Sure, kid.”

Ratchet settled next to Drift on the couch. Drift had thought about getting frisky, seeing if Ratchet was up for interface, but something in his demeanor made Drift think twice. “Hey,” he said gently. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Think I’m just tired. I’m not as young as you.”

“You wanna just go to the berth and recharge, then?”

Ratchet sighed. “Maybe that would be for the best.”

“Yeah. You’ll wanna rest up so you can have fun on leave tomorrow. I got passes for both of us.”

That got Ratchet’s attention. “Leave? You mean, we’re going to be landing somewhere? We can visit a planet?”

“Yep.” Drift grinned, pleased with himself for scoring time off and two leave passes.

“Where?”

“Place called Kublai Three. Nice climate, dry, flat, no native life forms. Small Cata’ria settlement on the far side of the planet, but they’ve already given us permission to land as long as we leave the Cata be. Rodimus figures it’s a good time for us to get out of the ship and use our t-cogs.” Drift revved his engines. “He’s got a point; not a lot of use for most of our alt modes on a ship like this.”

“By which you mean Ultra Magnus has chewed you out for racing in the halls again.”

“Maybe.” 

“Yeah.” Ratchet managed a small smile. “That sounds like it could be fun.”

#

Kublai Three was best known in the galaxy for a terrible tornado storm that had utterly devastated a Jarboll settlement several centuries ago. The Jarboll had never recovered; Drift had seen the ruins of their abandoned town as the _Lost Light_ entered geosynchronous orbit over the planet. There were no signs of tornados today, though. As Drift stepped off the landing shuttle, he admired the view: lush mosses and clear mauve skies. The only cloud in sight was a faint haze over a distant mountain range.

Ratchet followed a pace behind. “Pretty.”

“Yeah. No roads, but this moss covers ground that’s mostly made of stone. Should be good for driving on.” Drift turned to Ratchet. “You feeling better this morning?” Drift asked.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I can keep up with a speedster like you.”

For a moment, Drift felt a pang of regret. Rodimus had challenged him to a race, and part of him had badly wanted to accept. But after spending most of last night recharging next to poor, tired Ratchet, Drift didn’t want to shorten any of their leave time together to play games with Rodimus. 

“You go burn the crud out of your cylinders,” Ratchet said distractedly. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Once again, Drift wondered if Ratchet was okay. “Why don’t we go for a drive together?” He winked, extinguishing one optic, then illuminating it again. “Maybe we can find an out of the way field somewhere and…do some exploring.”

“Exploring.”

“Yeah. You have no idea what kind of new things you might discover on an alien planet.”

Ratchet snorted. “If we find any, you gonna write a report for Ultra Magnus?”

“Ultra Magnus could probably use all the information on new positions that he can get.”

Ratchet almost choked with laughter.

Drift grinned. “What do you say?”

“You’re incorrigible, kid. Okay. Let’s go.” 

“After you.”

Ratchet hesitated. “No, after you.”

“You’ll never catch up if I go first.” Drift tilted his head. “Come on, let me see your alt mode.”

Ratchet shuffled his feet in the dust. “I, er…”

It took a moment for Drift to figure it out—Ratchet was embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed. It was ridiculous, Drift thought, that a mech who had seen and heard so much during the course of his long medical career would be hesitant about something so simple.

“Come on,” Drift said carefully, “I’ve seen it before…”

“Then you’ve seen it before.” Ratchet folded his arms.

“…but not up close.”

The medic snorted. “Nothing to see. Just a box with wheels.”

Drift grinned. “Ratch, are you shy?”

Ratchet sighed. “No.” Quickly, as if fearing he’d lose his nerve, Ratchet changed shape.

Drift let his optics soak in the sight of Ratchet’s ambulance mode. Just like Ratchet’s robot mode, it was sturdy and strong, probably tougher than it looked, and all business in white and red. Rescue, healing, hope. Drift liked the way the light bar on top had a shape almost reminiscent of Ratchet’s chevron, and how the square form was streamlined by curved corners and sloped angles.

Drift walked around to see Ratchet better from another angle. His gaze fixed on one detail in particular.

Ratchet’s rear hatch.

It occurred to Drift that Ratchet was able to carry other Cybertronians inside his alt mode. Drift suddenly became very curious. Could he actually fit inside Ratchet’s alt mode? Go for a ride in there? What would it be like, to see and feel Ratchet all around him?

Drift reached out his hand, and just then, Ratchet gunned his engine and took off.

“Hey! Wait up!” Drift said. He transformed and sped off in Ratchet’s wake, drawing up beside Ratchet and driving beside him.

Ratchet was laughing, like it was a game. Drift laughed too. 

But he couldn’t get the thought of that compartment hatch out of his mind.


	2. Telling Me No Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten a ton of feedback on this story already and I just wanted to say thank you. Fic writers always appreciate the folks who take the time to leave feedback. It means a lot to me, especially in this case where I'm trying something a little "off the beaten path" so to say. So to everyone who leaves kudos and comments: thank you.

Chapter Two: Telling Me No Lies

Ratchet braked to a halt in a little valley between two gentle hills. As he coasted to a stop, Drift caught one more tantalizing glimpse of the ambulance’s rear hatch before Ratchet transformed. 

The Chief Medical Officer put his hands on his hips and peered down at the white speedster parked in front of him. “I’m not about to kiss you like that,” Ratchet declared.

It was only then that Drift remembered the topic of Truth or Drink the night before. “Hey, are you being weird because of that conversation last night?”

“What?” Ratchet stammered.

“You know. Alt modes and interfacing.”

“I…I don’t…”

“I don’t wanna stick my spike in your manifold or anything gross like that. Let me say that right up front. But it is kind of strange that we’ve been together this long and I’ve never touched you in your alt mode.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Ratchet asked.

“Because _I like you_. That means _all_ of you. And you, you keep talking about how my streamlined figure cranks your crankshaft, and what it’d be like to run your fingers over my hood, but you never actually do it.”

Ratchet reached out and hesitantly patted Drift on his roof.

Drift muttered under his breath, glad Ratchet couldn’t see his expression. Ratchet’s touch was clumsy and awkward and about as erotic as one of Ultra Magnus’ “job well done” remarks. Which, in Drift’s opinion, was not the least bit sexy. At all.

Ratchet was humouring him, but Drift could tell Ratchet wasn’t into this. Drift sighed and changed shape.

He landed on his feet in front of Ratchet and kissed the medic on the lips. “Better?” Drift asked.

Ratchet’s hands on Drift’s thighs were touching him in a much more interesting way now. Drift was relieved that Ratchet seemed to have recovered his interest in Drift’s body. 

They were still kind of close to the landing site. Drift could hear the roaring of vehicle engines not far away as he let his hands roam his lover’s frame. If he and Ratchet kept doing what they were doing, someone might drive over here and see them interfacing with each other.

That would involve a lot of explanation, Drift was sure, especially to Rodimus and Ultra Magnus. Drift wasn’t looking forward to telling Rodimus to knock off his flirting; he had no idea how Rodimus would take that. He felt so uncomfortable about the idea of letting Rodimus down that he’d been putting off mentioning a word of his relationship about Ratchet to anyone. He also didn’t want to justify their relationship to Ultra Magnus. Most of all, though, Drift felt that anything truly special had to be kept secret and protected. The more he fell in love with Ratchet, the less he wanted to say anything about it. To anyone. It was, he supposed, very Decepticon of him.

He had to get over this. He had to say something. 

Right now, though, he didn’t want to say a thing. Ratchet seemed to be over whatever had caused him to act so strangely earlier, and Drift would rather the whole _Lost Light_ see the two of them going at it than give Ratchet any reason to stop.

But Ratchet heard those racing engines too. He pulled his lips from Drift’s, panted a little, and said in a strained voice, “We should get farther away from the landing site before we…”

“Yeah, probably,” Drift said reluctantly. He tried to calm the torrent of arousal flooding his systems with charge. Just a little more driving and they’d be somewhere more secluded. Then they could…

Drift actually didn’t care what they did, as long as he could share himself with Ratchet.

“Lead the way,” Drift said.

Ratchet changed shape, his earlier hesitance forgotten. Drift stood still and watched, appreciating the simple beauty of Ratchet’s transformation sequence. The ambulance idled, waiting for Drift to turn into a car, but Drift felt himself overwhelmed once again by curiosity at the sight of Ratchet’s rear hatch and the thought of what it must be like to ride inside.

Drift reached out and grasped the handle of Ratchet’s rear door. “Can I look inside?”

Ratchet spluttered. “I suppose. If you want to.”

Drift didn’t hesitate. He had the odd suspicion that if he lingered, he might lose his chance. He opened the hatch and leaned inside, resting his hands on the floor.

“Cozy,” Drift remarked. Actually it was more than cozy; he had to contort himself to squeeze between the berth and the row of medication dispensers lining the wall. Which he did, sneaking one foot, then the other, inside Ratchet’s compartment. It was kind of nice in here. The air was significantly warmer than outside, and feeling the hum of life through Ratchet’s frame made Drift feel as though he were being enclosed in a hug.

“That’s because I’m not a troop carrier. If you’re in my bay, you’re supposed to be on the slab.”

“Okay,” Drift said.

The noise coming over the commlink sounded suspiciously like choking. Drift grinned widely and didn’t bother to hide it as he hopped up on the berth. “Hey, comfy,” Drift said as he settled himself on his back.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“You said it yourself, if I’m in your bay, I belong like this.” Drift laced his hands behind his head in a posture of affected nonchalance, stretching out his body and exaggerating the sleek, supple lines of his streamlined plating. The berth was made of some kind of material that adapted to the contours of his body, supporting his entire frame. It wasn’t particularly soft, but Drift had to admit he felt very secure like this. 

“Damned straight you belong like…”

Drift’s fingers slipped to the clasps on his armour.

“…what are you…”

Drift pulled air into his intakes, savouring the familiar aromas of hospital and disinfectants and _Ratchet_. As if on cue, his fans began cycling in a slow, anticipatory spin. 

He was really getting predictable. First he felt safe, then he started to get all hot and bothered. His valve tingled with anticipation.

Ratchet had never asked to watch Drift self-overload. The relationship was still too new, Drift supposed, or maybe Ratchet wasn’t into that sort of thing. He didn’t know. He’d never asked. So far it had been easier—more comforting—to do what Ratchet said. Because what Ratchet said was so very, very good…

But lately, Drift had started to think that maybe he ought to take more of an active role in suggesting things to try. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.

If anyone drove by right now, what would they see? Just Ratchet’s alt mode with the back door hanging…

At that moment, the rear hatch slammed shut.

Drift grinned. Perfect privacy.

“Come on Ratch, you have to know me well enough by now,” he teased. “You’ve got me safely tucked away in here, on my back on a nice warm berth, feeling your engine purr…what do you think I’m going to want to do?”

The noise through his comm link sounded like a groan. Drift could’ve swore he heard Ratchet’s engine shifting into drive, too. Apparently he was going for a little ride.

Primus, Ratchet was fun to tease. _I really should have found the courage to do this before,_ Drift thought as his fingers flicked the first two clasps open.

Something moved above him.

Drift froze, hands on his abdomen, and looked up. A large mirror hung suspended overhead, angled just the right way to show Drift exactly what he looked like.

Drift smiled. Ratchet might’ve been acting weird before, but he was clearly into this now. And from the slight vibrations in the berth beneath him, he could guess that Ratchet was moving, driving around, and that somehow made the whole thing hotter.

He’d always been uncomfortable when other mechs told him he was a hot piece of aft, but this was Ratchet, and nobody else was going to see this show. Drift parted his thighs slid his finger down in tantalizing little circles towards his third armour clasp. The image overhead played out like a holovid. It felt unreal, as though he were watching a racy movie, except that was him up there on that monitor. 

_I really do look kind of like a hot piece of aft._

His right ankle butted up against something hard and cold. Drift looked up and found some sort of frame-like protrusion he hadn’t noticed before extending from the edge of the berth. Whatever it was, it looked pretty solid, and if he lifted his foot up and over the side of the frame, he could tuck his foot pretty easily into the top of the protrusion. There was, conveniently enough, a similar device on the left side, and whatever they were, they were just the right size to support him. Drift spread his legs and lifted them just high enough to slip his feet into the frames.

All the while, he watched himself in the mirror. Primus, he was starting to get really turned on; there was just something about actually seeing himself acting so hungry for a hard ‘facing, and meaning every bit of it, too. He guessed from the erratic flickering of the lights around him that his little show was affecting Ratchet, too, but how close the medic was to losing control, Drift couldn’t guess. He hoped it wouldn’t take too much longer before Ratchet ejected him, transformed, and fragged him into the…where were they? 

Out of earshot of those racing enignes? Still alone? Drift hoped so. Even if the idea that Ratchet might, right now, be driving beside someone else—some other Autobot utterly oblivious to the white speedster writhing around inside Ratchet’s bay—even if that idea cranked Drift’s gears, _hard_. 

He shoved the last clasp open roughly and pushed his armour away. A helpful claw appeared at the end of a rotating arm; it grasped the armour and spun it out of sight. Drift didn’t question this. He was too busy looking up at the white speedster splayed bare on Ratchet’s medbay slab.

The cozy warmth of Ratchet’s bay didn’t feel so warm now. The air felt cool, almost cold, against his overheated equipment. Drift groaned, sliding his hands down his sides, trying to prolong the anticipation, but already he could feel a quiver in his jaw indicating a desperate need to start relieving the tension coursing through his circuits. 

The mirror above him rotated, and on its back was another image—this time, a screen. Drift sat up, but he couldn’t tell which of the hanging medical arms contained the camera, and really, didn’t he have more pressing concerns? He laid back down and watched the image on screen: the close-up of a valve. Its edges gently pulsed with arousal, squeeze and release, squeeze and release, eagerly waiting for a thick cord to jack in and fill it. A sheen of moisture had just begun to gather on its inner rim. Next to it, a cable lay over an outstretched thigh, twitching with arousal and the desire for stimulation.

Drift slid his hand down over his lower abdomen, and when his fingers came into view over the base of the cable, there was no more doubt about whose equipment it was. That was him, live on screen.

_I look like that._

Drift bit his lip, failed to fully smother the moan. Primus, this was hot. He wrapped his hand around his cord and shuddered with delight. One light stroke…a second…he had to make this last, had to enjoy the show playing out on the monitor overhead and likely somewhere else in Ratchet’s neural net, had to defer release just a little longer.

“Ratchet,” he panted. “Ratchet, I’m getting so hot.”

“Climb out of there, then,” Ratchet growled. “I’ll pull over, and we can play.”

And Drift wanted to play—very, very much. 

But…maybe not quite yet. 


	3. Walls Were Shaking

Chapter Three: Walls Were Shaking

Drift wasn’t used to being a tease. These kinds of games were best for mechs who wanted to get caught. Except with Ratchet, Drift did want to get caught. Very, very much.

“I’m so hot it hurts,” he panted. “Someone call an _ambulance_.”

He pumped his cord faster, but pleasant as it was, it wasn’t giving him what he needed. His poor valve was absolutely aching, crying out to be filled. He watched his body writhe and thrash on the monitor overhead, begging for release.

He didn’t care any more if Ratchet was driving alone. He didn’t care if Ratchet threw him to his knees and fragged him in full view of the entire crew. Drift wanted Ratchet, inside him, right now, and he was about to lose his mind. 

His left hand slid up his inner thigh, finger extended, probing for his poor dripping port…

..and stopped.

His wrist stung. Something had lashed around it, gripping it tight, and even as Drift tried to pull free and get his finger where he wanted it, the thing holding him resisted. Struggle as he might, Drift could not finger himself.

…With that hand. Desperate, Drift released his cable, moving his other hand into position. This time he saw it—some sort of prehensile tendril, snaking down from the ceiling, encircling his wrist, and jerking it free of his body.

“Hey,” Drift protested. He was about to sit up when a thicker restraint rose up from the sides of the berth and snapped shut around his waist, firmly affixing him to the bed.

“Drift.” Ratchet’s voice was stern. “You want to tease? Two can play.”

Drift kicked, reflexively—or tried to. His feet wouldn’t move. He leaned forward as far as he was able given the restraining belt around his waist, and saw that the devices where he’d been resting his feet had clamped shut around his ankles.

“If you want me to let you go, you have to knock it off.”

It occurred to Drift—ridiculously late—that despite the initial surprise he’d felt at being restrained this way, he wasn’t the least bit frightened, and he hadn’t actually asked Ratchet to let him go. 

Perhaps it was a matter of conditioning—it was a waste of breath to ask a Decepticon to let you go—but, Drift admitted, perhaps he’d kept his silence because he secretly didn’t want Ratchet to release him. The restraints were firm, but not painfully so; just strong and secure. _Safe in Ratchet’s hold_.

“What if I don’t want you to let me go?” Drift asked defiantly. “Maybe I’m right where I want to be, dripping all over your berth.”

Ratchet groaned, and the noise sounded like gears grinding.

“Drift. Let me rephrase this. You are going to behave, I am going to let you go, and you are going to get out of my repair bay right now, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else I am going to _frag you through that berth until you blow fuses_.”

Drift’s jaw dropped. Was it even physically possible to frag someone so long and so hard that all their fuses burned out? With anyone else, Drift would’ve taken that for a metaphor. With Ratchet…maybe _not_.

“But…but you’re in alt mode,” Drift protested weakly, and he wriggled against the bonds, though without any real effort. 

“And that is not going to stop me. Now knock it off, get out of my bay, and I can transform and help you with that.”

Drift’s head spun. That was a good offer. He ought to take it. And yet..and yet…

How would it even work?

“Do me here.”

“That’s not funny, Drift.” Ratchet’s voice crackled with static. “I remember what you said about that conversation in Swerve’s. About alt-mode fragging.”

“Ratch, that was…” What was that? Drift groaned as his body released a powerful, insistent pang for more attention. “We never talked about…you never told me you could do it like _this_!”

One of the diagnostic arms swung out over the slab, and it extended a long, prehensile tendril that gently traced a path down Drift’s inner thigh. “You really want to find out what I can do with these?” Ratchet demanded.

It felt good. So good. But Drift wanted so much more. 

He arched against his restraints, hoping that by leaning his body he could get that touch just even a little closer to his poor valve. “Yes,” he said, and it sounded like a plea.

“You’re not going to be sorry later?”

“I need you, Ratch.” The words poured out of his mouth like a confession. “With you…anything.”

Drift swore he saw, and felt, the ambulance bay shiver around him. “Do you want me to let you go?” Ratchet said gently.

“You’re driving, aren’t you?” Drift replied. “Maybe I should stay this way. I feel more…secure.”

Yes, that was definitely a shiver through Ratchet’s chassis.

“Open your diagnostic ports, then.”

Drift felt confused as he sent a signal to pop the little access hatch on his forearm. Diagnostic ports were used to help a medic tell what was wrong when a mech was unconscious and couldn’t speak. Drift didn’t feel anything when they were used, and as far as he knew, neither would Ratchet. “Isn’t that just a report of my systems status?” he asked. Then another possibility occurred to him. “Or, is that, uh…you know…do you get off on that?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Ratchet huffed. “Diagnostics are _my job_ and I don’t find _my work_ the slightest bit sexy. This is for safety reasons.” Static crackled. “You should know this is potentially dangerous. I need to ground you so you don’t fry your own circuits, and I won’t do anything if I can’t monitor your systems.”

Drift blinked. “You mean you seriously could blow all my fuses?” Was it actually possible to die from overloading too hard?

“I don’t know about _all,_ but I could definitely hurt you. I’ve never heard of anyone offlining permanently, but it’s theoretically possible, if that charge has nowhere to go, or if the ground’s can’t bleed it off faster than it builds, or if you run too hot for too long. I need your diagnostics to know how much you can take without harm.” Ratchet’s voice softened. “I’d never want to hurt you, but the choice will always be yours whether or not you want to try this.”

“I trust you.” Drift didn’t even have to think about this. For the first time he trusted a partner completely and without reservations.

“All right.” Ratchet gently slid his data receptors into the diagnostic ports. Drift heard them click home. “Remember, this only tells me about your physical responses. I can’t read your mind. If you want to stop, or have a question, you have to ask me.”

“Okay.” Drift quivered. The restraints on his hands and feet were gentle, completely painless, and the position he was held in was actually quite comfortable. Drift’s valve, though, was getting downright _uncomfortable_ , and his cable was complaining about losing the attention of his hands. “I’m hot, Ratch, I need a good fragging.”

Ratchet groaned. “Drift, you’re not making it easy for me to get through the preliminaries.”

“It’s Ultra Magnus who gets off on preliminaries.” Drift found himself literally panting. “Ratchet, I _need_ …” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t articulate what he needed, only that his body was ravenously hungry for something only Ratchet could give.

“Just a little bit more,” Ratchet soothed. “Just hang on and then we can give you what you need.”

Drift whimpered. He sucked cool air into his intakes and tried to control himself just a little longer. In New Crystal City he’d learned to find his stillpoint, but right now, his stillpoint seemed to be burning within his valve, at the ceiling where his data jack was buried deep up inside.

Two more of those…Drift wasn’t sure what to call them. They were probably diagnostic arms, appendages meant for the manipulation of medical tools on the patients lying in the ambulance bay, but they were so prehensile, so flexible, it was hard to think of them as anything but tentacles. The two arms descended from the ceiling, holding some sort of device. It looked like a little bag with a flexible cord attached to the closed end.

The open end went over Drift’s cable.

Drift’s cable quivered at being inside something, even if it wasn’t Ratchet’s valve, but the bag didn’t feel much like a valve at all. It was loose and unresponsive, dry, and generally uninteresting. Drift would be disappointed if it weren’t for the fact that he was so revved up, even the faint contact of the bag against his cable was better than nothing.

“I want you to flash your high beams for me,” Ratchet purred.

It was a confusing request, but easy enough to comply. Drift flicked both the lights that became his headlights in alt mode, and his optics, high and then low again.

“Good. Now, if you want me to stop what I’m doing, I want you to do that. Okay?”

“Can’t I just tell you?”

“Oh, Drift. I think your mouth will be busy.”

_Busy?_ How would that work? Drift loved using his mouth on Ratchet. Kissing his mouth, sucking his cable, licking out his valve, Drift was good for any and all of it. But what was there inside Ratchet’s ambulance bay for Drift to put his mouth to work on?

The answer slid down from an extending arm overhead.

“You’re going to need your energy,” Ratchet murmured. “This is loaded with that recovery-grade energon you like so much. Jellied.”

Drift eyed the nozzle hanging before him and grinned. A single drop of glowing energon shimmered like a pearl at the tip of the nozzle. “Does that look like a spike on purpose?”

“Just wrap your lips around it and give it a suck.”

Drift smirked. As Ratchet slid the nozzle into position, Drift kissed it, then mouthed the tip as though it really were Ratchet’s cable. Either Ratchet needed his suspension worked on or those were distinct moans shuddering up through the ambulance’s frame. Drift could only guess where else Ratchet might have sensory nerves, but those tendrils playing on his thighs were distinct possibilities.

Drift ran his tongue teasingly up the mouthpiece, wondering when Ratchet would lose his patience and tell him to stop playing around. Ratchet said nothing. 

Instead, the covering over Drift’s cable shrank into a sheath that fit the cable perfectly. Much to Drift’s surprise, the sheath began giving off a rather interesting sensation. It felt very like a kiss on the tip…then delicate mouthing.

Drift stopped cold. A tantalizing feeling much like a tongue ran up the underside of his cable.

Tentatively, Drift folded his lips around the mouthpiece. He waited, tasting his first hint of energon on his tongue. His breath rasped in, out…and then he felt it, down below, the sensation of his cable enfolded in a mouth.

So that was how it worked. Whatever he did to the mouthpiece, he’d feel on his own equipment…but not right away. 

Drift sucked experimentally. Waited. When the feeling of someone suckling his cable came through below, Drift groaned out loud. It didn’t feel like he was sucking himself off at all. The time delay between what he did and what he felt made the experience feel a lot more like sharing oral in the 69 position. Except…

Drift tickled the tip of the mouthpiece with his tongue, just the way he liked it, and was rewarded a few seconds later.

“Like that, do you?” Ratchet asked.

Drift nodded, the mouthpiece between his lips, and gasped as he felt what seemed much like an awkward nod against his cable.

“Would you take a medic’s advice?” 

“Sure,” Drift said, his mouth mostly full as he eased the spike-shaped nozzle deeper. Primus, did this feel good!  


“Much as I’d love watching you play with that…” Another burst of static drowned out Ratchet’s words, and Drift could guess that the ambulance was getting flustered. “I’d advise you suck it slowly. You don’t want to drink too much fuel and, after all, your valve is the main event.”


	4. Already There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING
> 
> IF YOU LET PEOPLE READ OVER YOUR SHOULDER,
> 
> READ THIS ON A WORK, SCHOOL, OR PUBLIC COMPUTER,
> 
> READ WITH OTHER PEOPLE PRESENT IN THE ROOM/BUS/AREA/WHATEVER,
> 
> CAN'T EVER LOOK ME IN THE EYE AGAIN,
> 
> OR SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST,
> 
> NOT. MY. FAULT.
> 
> YOU WERE WARNED,
> 
> AND THIS IS YOUR WARNING.
> 
> Thank you and have fun :)
> 
> *

Drift had almost forgotten about his poor needy valve thanks to the novelty of his new cable massager. He sucked the mouthpiece in between his lips, and a few moments later, was rewarded by the sensation of a mouth caressing his cable. Drift knew he could get himself off with this setup very nicely indeed, and he bet Ratchet would like to watch, but apparently Drift wasn’t going to get to focus his attention on his new plaything today after all. 

Ratchet had just informed him that today, his valve was the main event.

Now the valve in question gave off a sharp pang of emptiness. Drift couldn’t take his mind off his poor empty valve, no matter how deeply he pulled on the mouthpiece or how much his cable liked the attention it was getting. His valve was very wet, too, wet and achingly hollow, and a good hard cable would feel so wonderful buried deep inside. Was Ratchet able to use his cord to jack in when he was in alt mode?

The tendril hanging draped over Drift’s left thigh slithered to life, tracing teasingly around the outside of Drift’s valve. Another tendril began to slither over Drift’s right ankle, making its way to his knee, then higher. Drift gasped as he realized where they were going, then whimpered when it seemed all Ratchet wanted to do was stroke Drift’s inner thighs. His valve pulsed almost painfully. 

Desperate, Drift did as instructed. He took the mouthpiece as deep as he comfortably could and suckled lightly, almost weeping with frustration and arousal. Moments later he felt a light massage on his cable, just enough to keep his discomfort from becoming pain, but not nearly enough to satisfy.

“You are so beautiful,” Ratchet breathed. 

Drift felt warm inside, even though he could barely stop from whimpering. He muffled his sounds against the mouthpiece that felt very much like Ratchet’s cord.

“Let’s see what we can do,” Ratchet murmured, “for that little valve of yours.”

Drift nodded enthusiastically. _Please. Oh please._ He could feel his whole frame blazing, the air above his chassis rippling with heat, his fans venting hard, and Ratchet hadn’t even touched his valve yet.

“Let’s see just how hot you are,” Ratchet said.

Drift watched on the overhead screen as Ratchet’s left tendril slipped over the rim of his valve and gently pushed inside.

It was thin. It was so slim. Drift wanted to be filled up and fragged hard, and instead, all he felt was this delicate whispering tendril gliding up the inside of his valve. He twisted, trying to find a position where he could press it against his nodes, at least, but the restraints held him back. It seemed to move very deep, but stopped just shy of his port.

“Ohhh,” Ratchet breathed. “This unit tells me you’re _extremely_ hot.”

Drift suckled, and was sucked in turn, and wished the tendril would tell Ratchet something that wasn’t so obvious. Like how desperate he was for Ratchet to jack into the tender port at the very top of his valve.

“But are you ready to frag?” Ratchet murmured.

Drift nodded his head yes.

Ratchet continued, as though he hadn’t noticed, “I should probably find out how wet you are. I might need to slide my lubricator arm up that tight valve of yours.”

Drift dimmed his optics. He would absolutely love a lubricator arm up his valve right now. 

“Or maybe the grease tendril will do the trick.”

Not that Drift needed either. Drift could feel wet, sticky fluid following the curve of his aft in slow-moving drops. His body was already slicked up to receive a cable without any extra help.

Drift felt his valve rim curling back from careful pressure, and opened his optics just in time to see the second tendril slide into his valve. This one felt different inside: bristly, almost tickling. Drift writhed. He was so hungry for more…

He sobbed with relief as two more tendrils began to slither over his legs.

“My sensors tell me that you’re incredibly wet,” Ratchet whispered. “No wonder you’re dripping onto my bunk.”

Drift moaned. Why were those tendrils taking so long? 

He looked up and saw the reason. They weren’t interested in thrusting inside him. Instead, each delicate appendage gripped the lips of Drift’s valve—one on each side—and carefully spread them open.

Drift whimpered. Having his valve pulled open made him more aware than ever of how empty it was. Even the sight of the two slender arms inside him wasn’t a comfort. He needed so many more of those….

“What a lovely valve,” Ratchet soothed. 

“Please,” Drift begged through his mouthful of fuel nozzle. “Come…come inside.” He tried to spread his legs invitingly, but the locks on his ankles held him fast.

“Are there nodes inside that need my attention?”

Drift nodded furiously. Primus, how he wanted that!  
“Let’s see if I can locate any.” Overhead, some kind of arm unfolded and then, thank the Guiding Hand, another series of tendrils extended down. Most of them landed on Drift’s chest and abdomen, but Drift could see on the monitor that one was aiming straight for Drift’s valve. It didn’t bother to tease or caress. The two appendages curled around his valve lips spread them wide, and the new one slid right in.

Drift sucked enthusiastically on the nozzle in his mouth.

The new arrival was as thin as the others, and Drift still didn’t have the sensation he craved, the feeling of a thick cable jacked into his valve. His spike, though, thanked him for the stimulation it received.

And then Drift felt something brush one of his sensory nodes, midway up his valve passage.

It was the strangest feeling. The nodes near the rim of his valve remained aching and lonely, barely touched by the thin tendrils in his valve. But one particular node felt a light touch across it, and then, a gently applied vibration that made Drift groan in appreciation.

He dimmed his optics, made a gentle suction in his mouth, and just _felt_.

He _loved_ what Ratchet was doing to that node. His other nodes, though, practically screamed for similar attention, and there was none to be had. The other appendages up inside didn’t seem to be doing anything but monitoring his internal temperature and lubrication levels; they barely even _touched_ his valve walls. Drift felt another bead of moisture slip from his valve and trail down the curve of his aft. He twisted, trying to get that sweet sensation somewhere else.

Something wriggled in his valve. Drift lit his optics to look at the screen. He could see a new tendril rippling with waves as it pushed its way inside. He could _feel_ it squirming its way deeper inside him. 

_Yes!_ The newcomer had found another node, slightly deeper, and was tickling it…

_Stay. Please!_

Drift smacked his lips, suckling harder at the nozzle.

The sensation went away.

Drift wailed.

Then suddenly, his whole body relaxed as a delicious buzzing touched the new node. This felt _exceptionally_ good, yes, just like this… Drift realized that the previous tendril had left its fully satisfied node behind and moved to the new one, while the most recent tendril plumbed deeper into his valve, seeking out more sweet spots. 

He looked up and watched on the screen as the two arms gripping his valve tugged the folds apart to invite another tendril in.

Primus, he could feel the most recent arrival flicking the node just inside the lip of his valve, while on screen he watched it undulating in time with each flick. 

Yet another tendril slithered down his chest, over his abdomen. Again the opening of his valve was tugged wide in welcome, then permitted to close around the fresh tendril. Drift felt all the tendrils moving deeper, reaching for new nodes. Some flicked against sensitive places that were, as yet, untouched. Others picked up where their predecessors had left off. One vibrated against Drift’s new favourite node and he cried in pleasure, a sound gagged off by the nozzle in his mouth.

Drift had never even imagined interface like this.

Drift sucked the nozzle slowly, maintaining a gentle, regular pressure on his cable. Ratchet was right; that would be the best. It was time for him to settle in for a good thorough fragging.

His legs relaxed in the stirrups; his valve lost its painful ache, and the tightness fled his spinal strut. Drift felt his body settle onto the berth. His hips beat against the restraints, and they loosened, just enough for Drift’s body to sway in counterpoint with the tendrils. Drift dimmed his optics and watched on the monitor as Ratchet fragged him, filling his valve one tendril at a time.

Some of his nodes still cried for attention, but Drift was no longer agitated. He knew Ratchet would get to them in time; while he waited, he savoured the delicious anticipation, and the knowledge that this encounter would feel better and better with each new addition to his valve.

Even now, Drift’s valve was full enough that he could feel the tendrils gently rubbing against the inside lining. He squeezed his calipers and felt delightful resistance. He fluttered his valve, and when the tendrils pulsed in response, Drift felt his vision fuzz out in a hail of static.

_Oh, Ratchet._

_Oh, Ratchet._

_So good._

Drift loved the way Ratchet was…what was the word? _Taking him_ wasn’t right. Drift was freely _giving_. And Ratchet was doing more than just _accept._ Ratchet was thoroughly _possessing_ him, mastering him sexually, and Drift couldn’t be happier about it as more tendrils made themselves at home in his valve, savouring his pleasure, teasing every node inside him from the top down, all except the little port tucked into the very top of his valve.

“Arch your back,” Ratchet coaxed. The CMO’s voice seemed to come from all around Drift, whispering through the ambulance bay.

Drift obeyed instantly. He felt a momentary pressure, and then another tendril in his valve. This one…this one was having a tight fit, Drift realized through a distant haze of pleasure. He could feel it squirming, shoving the others aside as it pushed deeper and deeper. It wriggled desperately, as though it had a specific destination in mind.

“Drift.” Ratchet’s voice pulled Drift’s mind into focus. “Push against me, Drift.”

Something pushed insistently against Drift’s valve, right at the top, just below his external node.

Drift arched his back and pushed. His valve spread, but not quite enough. Groaning, Drift pumped his hips, pushing harder. The new arrival slid past the tight circle of the valve rim and inside.

“Good,” Ratchet murmured.

Drift gasped around the nozzle as that very intent tendril flickered against his port, playing over the ceiling of his valve, while the most recent arrival located the final node left untouched near the rim of his valve and yet another tendril came sliding down his…

_Another_ one? Drift had been liking this, yes, but…how many tendrils did Ratchet plan to cram in there? It felt good now, having his valve gently stretching to accommodate Ratchet’s diagnostic arms, and yeah, okay, Drift did kind of enjoy the idea of having his valve stuffed full, but… Well, there was a fine line between _filled_ and _breaking point_ , and Drift was really not into pain at all, particularly not in that area. 

The idea of being made to take more tendrils than his valve could properly fit frightened him, and before he knew it he was flashing his high beams from his optics.

Instantly, the mouthpiece withdrew from his mouth, and the pressure on his valve disappeared.

_Everything_ disappeared. Drift felt Ratchet’s tendrils withdrawing. The tantalizing promise against his poor lonely port vanished. His first sound wasn’t an explanation for flashing the alert, but a cry of loss. 

He’d wanted to talk to Ratchet. He hadn’t wanted Ratchet to _quit_!

A careful touch returned to his valve. Drift looked up at the monitor to see a tendril, folded over onto itself, gently nestled between his valve lips. Another lay against his external anterior node and vibrated. Pleasure flooded back into Drift’s systems. He sighed with relief and relaxed back against the bunk.

“What do you need?” Ratchet murmured.

“How…” Drift’s voxcoder rustled with static. “How many of those tendril things are you going to stuff up my valve?”

“Do you want the sexy answer, or the honest one?”

Drift fidgeted. His anterior node had been left alone until now, and having that softly vibrating tendril draped across it felt really good. His body wanted him to shut up, stop thinking, and savour the experience of having Ratchet do him.

But he knew he wouldn’t enjoy it if part of him was still scared.

“The honest one,” Drift admitted.

Drift heard Ratchet’s sigh all around him. “After two more, you’d have taken a girth the equivalent of my interface cable.”

That was all? Drift took Ratchet’s cable all the time. Comfortably. He loved it. “Uh…wow, somehow it felt like a lot more than that.”

“That’s because you’re taking them incrementally instead of all at once. I probably would’ve stopped at four more.”

“Four.”

“Mmm…enough to give you the feeling of a good stretch...not enough for you to find my interface cable disappointing in comparison.”

“I’d never find your cable disappointing.” Drift thought for a moment, appreciating the buzzing sensation on his anterior node, realizing that even doubled up, the tendril at the mouth of his valve wasn’t anywhere near what he needed. “Can I ask a few favours?”

“Name them.”

Drift moaned. That buzzing…so good! “First, _keep doing that_.”

“This?” Ratchet rotated the vibrating tendril over Drift’s node.

“Yeah!”

“All right.” Drift could’ve sworn he heard the smile in Ratchet’s voice.

“Second, I want you back in my valve.”

A tendril slipped obediently inside. Drift mewled in appreciation. He heard Ratchet’s satisfied sighing all around him.

“Third, mouthpiece last…” It took all his nerve to say what was on his mind. “I want all those tendrils back inside me first, fragging me from the inside out, and the whole time you’re doing it I’m going to tell you just how much I love it.”


	5. Back in the Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day to my favourite fandom, starring my original and still favourite OTP, my flag ship if you will :) 
> 
> And thank you for all the people who've taken the time to comment on this fic which really pushed my limits to write.
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter Five: Back in the Ring

Drift had once thought that if there was something sexual that a Cybertronian could do, he’d probably done it. 

On second thought, though, Drift could think of a few extremely dangerous kinks he’d talked about, even pretended to do, but never actually done in reality. And he’d always prided himself on never fragging or being fragged in alt mode.

Well, so much for _that_.

He was currently flat on his back in Ratchet’s ambulance transport repair bay and Ratchet was doing things to him that he’d never imagined possible…and Drift never wanted it to end.

Drift told himself that the bands around his wrists, ankles and waist were there to protect him in case Ratchet made a sudden stop, but Drift was pretty sure that Ratchet had pulled over a little while ago. He no longer felt the telltale bumps of Ratchet’s wheels driving over stones or cracks in the earth, for instance, and the sensation of motion had stopped. Not that Drift was paying much attention to the sensation of motion when he had more of Ratchet’s diagnostic manipulation tendrils than he could count stretching his slick little valve.

So now, those bands existed to keep Drift in place when he writhed from a little excess stimulation on one node or another.

Or perhaps they were there to brace him when Ratchet added yet another tendril to the collection already stuffing Drift’s valve. Drift pushed out against the pressure and the tendril slipped inside, causing a faint but oddly appealing burning sensation in the valve’s rim. It was tender, maybe even a little sore, but the stretch just felt so good.

Then something cool and wet oozed out of Drift’s valve, soothing the burn. Drift realized, distantly, that the new addition must be the lubricator that Ratchet talked about earlier.

The tendrils in his valve wriggled, drawing the thick fluid across themselves, rubbing it into the walls of Drift’s valve, and massaging it into nodes already sensitized from previous play. 

Drift tried to tell Ratchet he liked that, but all that came from his lips was an extended “ooooooh.”

Ratchet maneuvered a mouthpiece into position near Drift’s lips. Drift knew from earlier play that sucking it would result, a few seconds later, in a sensation very like receiving oral pleasure delivered directly to his cable via the device that currently sheathed it. And yes, Drift’s cable was registering discomfort at having lost its previous stimulation. Drift knew in a few moments he’d be happily suckling that nozzle again, but before that happened, he wanted to tell Ratchet a few things.

His consciousness battled the rising tide of pleasure long enough to get the words out.

“I like that,” Drift hissed as another tendril slid inside, returning to its previous task of stimulating one of Drift’s internal hot spots. “I want them _all_ back inside me.”

He did. Oh, he did.

“I want you to do exactly what you said you would. Pack my valve full. Stretch it out.”

Drift felt Ratchet’s next tendril hesitate at the rim of his valve. He felt a sudden panic that he’d overdone it on the dirty talk. He whimpered, terrified, but then the tendril slipped inside and Drift mewled, as loudly as he could to make sure Ratchet knew he loved it.

He wanted to admit out loud, to himself and Ratchet, how much he loved interface, including—especially—this dirty alt-mode interface that was the most perverted thing Drift had ever imagined and now couldn’t get enough of. But he couldn’t find the words.

Drift had picked up the art of dirty talk down in the gutters of Rodion and perfected it by listening to his fellow Decepticons discuss their conquests in the berth. Much to his surprise, though, Ratchet hadn’t liked Drift’s best lines very much at all. Instead of getting the CMO in the mood, they’d ended up with Drift getting his mouth hosed out with cleanser. Or, worse, Ratchet would just give him that sad look, shake his head, and pat Drift tenderly on the helm. Drift had figured out early on that telling Ratchet to take him, use him, and treat him like the dirty little piston licker he was built to be, was the best way to guarantee no interface all night.

Ratchet liked it a lot better when Drift made noise during interface—not words, just sounds expressing interest, enjoyment, desire and pleasure. That was a mercy. Drift would’ve found it hard to keep quiet, given the things Ratchet did to him, and, more importantly, given how much he liked them.

The irony, though, was that now, for the first time in his life, Drift could say _I want you to frag me unconscious_ and actually _mean_ it…and Ratchet didn’t want to hear it.

Drift couldn’t take it any more. He had to tell Ratchet how _good_ this felt. _Why_ didn’t Ratchet like dirty talk? It was hard to remember what Ratchet had said, given the way the sensations coursing through his frame tended to obliterate rational thought, but Drift remembered the gist. Ratchet didn’t like degrading, demeaning, hurting, or insulting his partner, not even when that partner was tied up in Ratchet’s repair bay with at least six or seven diagnostic tendrils packed in his valve and adoring every second of it like an interface-addicted gutter slut.

There was no way Drift could admit to being one of those, even if it was kind of true these days. Even if he kind of liked it—but just for Ratchet.

He’d only ever be a slut for Ratchet.

Another tendril struggled to join its brethren, pushing hard for a chance at Drift’s valve. Drift arched against the pressure, his mouth unhinged, and with one last conscious warning to watch the harsh language, he was babbling out loud.

“Oh Ratchet, that’s so good, this is the best frag, I love it, _Ratchet that’s so good…_ ”

His words devolved into a moan as the new arrival buzzed gently over a neglected node. His valve burned pleasantly as he clamped his calipers down on the tendrils. 

“Ratchet…can’t I tell you how much I love interfacing with you, can’t I say it feels good, that I love when you’re in my valve, that I love when you suck my cable…” And it did feel like Ratchet was sucking his cable. Even if he knew it was just the clever setup between the sheath and the mouthpiece, he still felt that Ratchet had a hand in it. “Oh, please don’t stop.”

“I’m glad you love this,” Ratchet murmured. “I love it too. You are so beautiful. You are so gorgeous when you overload.”

Drift looked up at the screen overhead, watching himself writhing in pleasure, watching tendril after tendril make themselves at home inside him. _Whore_ , his brain said, but he wasn’t getting paid. The act itself was more than reward enough. _Slut_ , his mind offered up, but that wasn’t right either. Wasn’t a slut something dirty? 

Drift looked at the face of the mech on the monitor—the mech who was him. His body contorted in rhythmic motion, but his face shone with ultimate pleasure. 

“I look like…” His voxcoder crackled with static. “Like some sort of interface god.”

As he said it, he realized it was true. This pleasure wasn’t dirty, wasn’t shameful. It was pure and loving and good. It was _right_ for a body to feel this good, and it was right for two mechs to share this pleasure together. Ratchet did this to him because he _loved_ him, because Drift liked it, and Drift liked it because Ratchet loved him. 

“Are you trying to make a believer of me?” Ratchet’s voice was kind. “You’re…” Static crackled, betraying Ratchet’s own arousal. “You’re making a very convincing argument.”

“This has to be what heaven feels like,” Drift breathed.

Then Ratchet adjusted the vibrating tendril on Drift’s anterior node, and Drift’s state of grace changed in an instant to a world of lust and heat and desire.

It felt incredible, but Drift still wanted more. His valve was full, but not full enough. Another diagnostic arm pushed against Drift’s valve, and Drift arched to meet it. His valve was so full…the tendril didn’t want to go in right away. Drift pumped his hips, driving it in inch by inch, groaning in satisfaction as he felt his valve walls tightening around it. He realized he was fragging Ratchet just as much as Ratchet was fragging him.

And from the whispering sighs filtering through the ambulance bay, Ratchet was enjoying this every bit as much as Drift was.

Drift was about to say something saucy when one of those arms moved inside him and he swore he could feel something resting lightly on his port, buried at the ceiling of his valve. The presence it wasn’t jacking in, wasn’t tickling, wasn’t doing anything—and yet the promise of what it possibly _could_ do was maddening. Drift wanted a good hard frag, right now! 

Meanwhile, the other tendrils stimulated him unmercifully. He couldn’t take it any more. “Ratchet, I’ll…I’ll spread my legs for you anywhere, Ratchet, any time, anywhere you want…I love this so much…”

Ratchet’s tendrils pulsed inside him, moving in counterpoint to the clenching of his calipers, and flooding his systems with ecastacy. Drift’s words cut off in a howl of pleasure.

But he still couldn’t overload. All this, and he still couldn’t…quite…overload. His body quaked in Ratchet’s restraints, hung over a pleasure that was less than an inch and thousands of lightyears away. He thrust, fragging and being fragged, and still only maintained his position.

Drift had lost count of how many tendrils were up his valve, but he remembered what Ratchet had said when he’d asked the ambulance his plans. Only two more than the girth of Ratchet’s spike. Just enough for him to feel stuffed full without hurting him…without being more than he could take…without making Ratchet’s spike a disappointment in comparison. Drift trusted Ratchet to keep his word. Drift had, after all, asked for the honest answer, not the sexy one.

“Ratchet?” Drift panted.

“Mmm?” A tendril flicked back and forth over Drift’s belly. Drift would much rather have it up his valve.

“What was the sexy answer?”

“Ah. It’s that I’d pack your tight little valve full of pleasure tendrils until I could power my wheels on the force of your overloads.”

Ratchet said it in the same simple, matter-of-fact way he used to explain medical procedures, and _that_ , the combination of the explicit words and the casual tone and the constant stimulation of the tendrils made Drift utter a long, loud moan of sheer arousal.

Right until that nozzle slid back between his lips.

Reflexively, Drift sucked, and that presence at the top of his valve moved.

An instant later, Drift felt the pressure on his cable, milking and caressing.

Tendrils flickered, starting at the bottom of his valve, moving their way up.

And when they hit the top, something jacked into his port. Hard.

Drift’s body snapped against the restraints in the hardest overload of his life.


	6. Mine, All Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been with me through this frankly unusual erotic tale of a sports car and an ambulance in love...
> 
> For the curious: Yes, I want to write more in this series, and I'm currently outlining just what form those stories will take. I'm going to take some time and finish up some other fanfics, but there's more Drift & Ratchet on the horizon, including a different take on their relationship. Thank you everyone :)

Drift had no idea how long the interface continued. Ratchet’s devices—tendrils up his valve, jack in his port, sheath on his cable, vibrator on his anterior node, nozzle in his mouth—worked in concert to wring the strongest overload of his life from his frame. The grounding wire plugged into his arm jerked and crackled with electricity.   
Drift imagined Ratchet’s alt mode drinking down the power from his climax and promptly overloaded again.

Drift counted five overloads before they started to run together—before he reached a state that was best described as one long, drawn-out, endless overload. Even in that condition he still felt occasional spikes of pleasure so bright and blinding that they were almost indistinguishable from pain. He screamed, but the mouthpiece choked his cries. He thrashed, but the bonds held him down. His body crackled with bolt after bolt of electric charge that was gobbled down by Ratchet’s grounding system. 

Drift wondered if Ratchet could power himself with the energy he was giving off. Was that all he was now—some sort of living power cell, bound up in Ratchet’s bay, made to overload endlessly so the ambulance could drive around? Did Ratchet devour Drift’s pleasure, swallow it up, feed off of it? The idea should be terrifying; instead, it made Drift feel yet another of those sharp, cutting pleasure-volts.

And still it went on.

Eventually, at long last, Drift felt the presence in his valve slip away. His heaving intakes finally managed to suck enough air into his manifolds, and it was only then that he realized how his back ached and his limbs throbbed, how his fuel pump was hammering irregularly and his engine had developed a bit of a knocking sound. The mouthpiece withdrew from his lips, leaving his fuel tank filled to capacity. His fans had stopped working completely—they’d spun faster and faster, overheated, and shut down automatically. Primus, they hurt. 

All in all, he could tell that he’d been used hard, and it was probably just as well that Ratchet was done, but…

…but oh, Primus, Drift didn’t want Ratchet to be finished with him. The height where Ratchet had taken him…coming down this far, this fast, this hard, felt like falling.

“No,” Drift whimpered, hearing his own voice half fritzed out with static. “No, don’t stop. Please, Ratchet. Please don’t ...don’t stop,” he sobbed.

“We have to,” came Ratchet’s voice, low and gravelly in his audio. “You’re on the verge of blowing a fuse.”

Right. Ratchet was still plugged into the diagnostic ports in his arms, and Drift guessed the shaky lines on the monitors across the bay were his own vital signs. It ought to be comforting that, given how Ratchet could probably, literally, frag a patient to death, that the medic was so concerned with Drift’s welfare. Right now, though, Drift himself was less concerned with his welfare than with easing the aching void in his valve.

“Don’t care,” he panted, “please frag me some more, Ratchet, _please_.”

Drift wanted to spread his legs, except they were already spread, and bolted into place in the ankle holders. He wanted to rub his frame suggestively, but his hands were still bound. What could he do to entice Ratchet that he hadn’t already done? What did he have to offer except the same valve and cord and mouth that Ratchet had already made thorough use of?

“ _Please_ ,” he begged hoarsely, because there was nothing more to do. 

Ratchet’s voice was quiet, strangled. “All right. Once more.”

Drift sobbed with relief when he felt the diagnostic tendrils slither over his thighs.

Something gently probed his valve, something hard and very, very wet. It penetrated him, seating itself deep inside. It felt deliciously cool on his tender, overused valve lining, and he clenched his calipers around it to savour its firmness. A groan tore from his mouth, “ _Yessss_...”

Drift clamped down on it again, and it exuded moisture, coating the interior of his valve with fluid. He pumped his hips as much as the restraints allowed, and Ratchet relented, helping him work the object in and out of his valve. He was so wet that he made the most obscene noises when Ratchet pulled the thing out almost all the way, then thrust it back in again. It felt so good. Drift didn’t care.

Dimly, he realized what he was fragging—or being fragged by, he wasn’t entirely sure who was doing it to whom any more, nor did it seem to matter. It was bigger and much harder than the tendril that oozed the cool solvent which Ratchet had put up his valve before. Maybe this was the lubricant dispenser Ratchet had talked about earlier. Drift hadn’t needed it then; but he’d been fragged so hard he’d exhausted his own supply. 

Oh, Primus, it felt amazing. It slid so smoothly in and out of his valve; so decadent and indulgent. Ratchet was so generous with the lubricant that Drift could feel the excess seep out of his valve and drip in slow streaks across his plating. 

One of the tendrils slipped into him, gently massaging what was fast becoming his favourite node, and oh, this was just as hot as he remembered—the feeling of being touched just _there_ while the rest of his nodes closer to the opening of his valve felt nothing but the cool slick of the lubricator sweeping past them. 

Drift whimpered, and tried to thrust harder, but the restraints held him down and Ratchet kept his sweet, steady pace. Drift realized with a moan that this was going to be a slow, comfortable frag and yes, yes, he was okay with that. He pulled air into his intakes and made his body relax—relax and savour the experience.

Ohhhh.

At this slow and easy pace, Drift could drink enough air into his intakes and cycle his fans on low, giving his body time to ease its aches. His fuel tank felt full and satiated, and it made him drowsy. Could he fall asleep in the middle of doing it? He felt so safe, and so comfortable, and so…so…

…but he wanted.

Primus, he still wanted, and as though Ratchet had read his mind, he stopped rubbing that special node. Drift whimpered, but Ratchet’s tendril had made its way to another node, a little lower down. Drift hissed through his teeth as the first brush of contact there started a whole new cascade of sensation through his neural net.

Then the tendril returned just where Drift liked it best, and Drift let his mind slip away. It was nothing like the gutters, where Drift had learned to disassociate his mind from his body. It might have been what Dai Atlas spoke of when he told Drift to let go of his physical form and let his mind ascend to the astral plane. Drift’s body was safe in Ratchet’s embrace, and his mind had travelled to a realm of pure ecstasy. He felt as though he were floating on clouds, letting wave after wave of pleasure brush over him in gusts of sparkling rain. 

Somewhere, far beneath him, the figure on Ratchet’s repair bed shuddered its way to one last overload.

Drift’s lips formed the ghost of a smile.

His mind, satisfied, drifted across the veil dividing the waking world from the land of dream.

On the verge of recharge, though, Drift felt a stirring of wakefulness. Ratchet’s tendril had stopped caressing him. Had it left his valve? 

Then the lubricator, too, moved. Downward. It did not thrust back to its previous position.

“Don’t go,” Drift mumbled as he felt the lubricator slip from his valve. His calipers clenched on emptiness and…

Oh, there. The tendril was back, lightly touching his favourite node. The pressure didn’t feel erotic any more; now it just felt comforting. Ratchet, inside him, possessing him. Yes.

The clamps on his ankles released themselves; the belt around his waist unlatched and slithered back into the slab. Drift tucked his legs up, feeling the dull burn of stiffness from having kept them in the same position for so long, and rolled onto his side. He couldn’t suppress a shiver; his body wanted to recharge, but he felt so vulnerable, and so cold.

He squeaked with shock when something soft and warm folded itself around his shoulders.

A tarp. It was a warming tarp, very soft, its delicate fibers softly stroking his chassis as it settled around him. He caught a quick glimpse of some of the silver arms moving overhead, tucking the tarp around his lower body. Ratchet was looking after him.

The waist restraint folded over him again, much looser this time, gently pressing the tarp against his abdomen. It didn’t feel like he was being pinned down at all.

It felt like a hug.

The tendril in his valve pulsed slowly, contentedly. Drift sighed, feeling Ratchet around him, inside him. The distant thrum of Ratchet’s engines played a soft, comforting rhythm, and before Drift knew it, he was sound asleep.

#

Drift woke up to the warm sensation of sunlight on his helm and the thrum of someone else’s engine sending gentle vibrations through his chassis. The air coming in through his intakes smelled fresh and sweet, tinged with exotic organics. Drift onlined his optics and looked around sleepily.

If this was a drug trip, it was the best one he’d ever had.

He was curled up with Ratchet under a soft tarp, and the two of them lay side by side in a grassy meadow, cradled by long-leaved plants. Two suns blazed overhead in a brilliant turquoise sky. Somewhere in the distance, some sort of native creature trilled a song.

Drift rested his hand on the medic’s waist and tried to remember how they’d gotten here. He remembered going out for a drive, getting up the nerve to tease Ratchet a little, and then..and then..

He felt his faceplates growing hot.

Beside him, Ratchet stirred. The doctor’s optics flickered to life and settled on Drift’s face. “Hey there,” he said gently. 

Funny. Ratchet looked pretty blissed-out his own self.

“Hi,” Drift murmured, and smirked. This conversation was completely inane, and yet it was hard to think of what else to say. How did you ask someone _did we just do the kinkiest thing I’ve ever imagined_?

“We need to talk,” Ratchet murmured in his audio, wrapping his arm around Drift’s shoulders.

“Mm-hmm.” Drift was very happy to listen to Ratchet talk, he thought as he offlined his optics. 

“You feeling all right?” There was a note of concern in Ratchet’s voice. Drift turned his optics on again to look up at him. Yes, Ratchet looked worried. Drift released him and sat upright. He bit his lip, then offered his forearm.

Ratchet also sat up, activated his diagnostic cables and plugged them in. Drift thought of Ratchet’s interior medibay, all his life signs displayed on Ratchet’s monitors, and flushed again. His fans began cycling on low.

“Dammit, you did blow a fuse,” Ratchet muttered, and Drift felt the heat in his cheeks grow to the intensity of a small sun. “I’m so sorry.”

Ratchet looked so miserable that Drift lost his smile. He put his hand on Ratchet’s chest. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t ask you for. Um, beg you for.”

“I know better.”

Ratchet’s optics seemed out of focus. Drift tilted his head this way and that. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just…I…” It was Ratchet’s turn to feel his faceplates burning. “I blew a couple fuses.”

“A _couple_.”

“They’ll reset,” Ratchet scoffed, making a brush-off gesture with his hands. “Nothing major. I’m just a little shaky, that’s all, and…”

“Primus, Ratchet, if I have to worry about you hurting yourself, we won’t get to do that any more!” Drift’s hands curled into claws, clutching at Ratchet’s chest.

Ratchet caught Drift’s hands in his own. “You would?” His tone was serious, even if his grip was shaky. “Do that again, I mean?”

“Frag _yeah_.” Drift stared up at him. “I’m courting the mech who just reinvented interfacing. Who in the Pit wouldn’t want a piece of…” 

Drift trailed off as an idea occurred to him. Rodimus would definitely want to try _a whole new way to frag_ , and Drift sure as hell didn’t want Rodimus trying it with Ratchet. It was less that he thought Ratchet would take Rodimus up on the offer, and more that he didn’t want Rodimus pestering Ratchet and annoying him. 

Would First Aid be interested? Drift wasn’t sure. He’d never been able to figure out if the arrangement between First Aid and Ambulon was an open relationship, casual interfacing between colleagues, or a closed courtship. Drift wondered if Ambulon would be able to do what Ratchet had just done; probably not. He doubted Ambulon would have those diagnostic and manual repair tendrils in his alt mode as a giant, disembodied leg.

“Drift,” Ratchet said. His hand clenched around the white speedster’s. “Please don’t tell anyone what just happened.”

Drift stared at him. “What, I just had the best frag of my life and you want me to keep it a secret?”

The doctor pressed his lips together. “There’s a reason that sort of thing is kept secret. Not just because a lot of people would find it…distasteful. Can you imagine what would happen if patients were afraid to ride in my repair bay because they thought I might do…that?”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t, Ratch. You’d never, ever, push that on someone too sick to resist.”

“Of course not, but you can say that because you trust me. A random stranger wouldn’t have that kind of…of faith,” Ratchet stuttered, clearly hating that word, but not knowing what other word to use. “For the sake of public health I cannot have patients worrying about what I might have done with my diagnostic and treatment tools, or hesitating before seeking help for fear that…I don’t know what, but Drift, it’s never good when patients are uncomfortable about getting assistance they need.”

Drift nodded, disliking the idea, but conceding Ratchet’s point. “It’s about professionalism.”

Ratchet looked startled. “Yes, that’s it exactly.” He stroked Drift’s cheek. “I want you to know, it’s not that I’m ashamed of you, or anything we’ve done. You can go ahead and tell the whole Lost Light we share a berth.” He smiled. “Or, better yet, that we’re a couple.”

Drift grinned. “I think I like the sound of the second one better. Because,” he said, as an idea occurred to him—and yes, he had the nerve to tease—“if I told them we shared a berth, I’d also have to tell them we shared a wall, and your desk, and that gurney in the back of the medibay, and…”

Ratchet laughed and swatted at him.

Drift giggled—actually giggled—and when the fit subsided, he lay on his back in the grass and looked up at the suns, and thought about how far he’d come from the gutters in Rodion.

“But no matter what we tell them,” he said, “you and I are going to have a secret. A little game we play when we come across planets like this one.” Drift rolled onto his side, facing Ratchet, and whispered in the medic’s audio, “Do you have any idea how hot that is?”

Ratchet’s optics sparkled. “I think,” he replied with a playful smile, “I have _every_ idea.”


End file.
